


O insomniacs of the world, good night

by lazarov



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Gen, honestly just the text equivalent of a tumblr mood board, nobody's ever asked eliot if he's okay, shortly post-mike, why did no one take care of eliot post-mike???, with a little tumblr mood board thrown in for good measure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 20:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7005145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarov/pseuds/lazarov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>eliot wakes him up in the middle of the night with a cool hand in the center of his back, pressed against the damp skin between his shoulderblades.</p><p><em>what</em>? quentin says, squinting to try and make out his face in the moonlight but eliot presses a finger to his lips and tosses a t-shirt at him.  </p><p><em> get up, we’re going out</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	O insomniacs of the world, good night

* * *

 

eliot wakes him up in the middle of the night with a cool hand in the center of his back, pressed against the damp skin between his shoulderblades.

 _what_? quentin says, squinting to try and make out his face in the moonlight but eliot presses a finger to his lips and tosses a t-shirt at him.  

 _get up, we’re going out_.

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

they drive and drive and quentin lets himself feel briefly surprised by the fact that eliot even has a car - why have a car when you’re a magician?  but then he glances at eliot’s face, his hair moving in the breeze of the rolled down window, the cigarette dangling between the fingers of his left hand.  he sees the easy way he shifts into fifth gear as they glide onto the freeway and the way his eyes are bright even in the dark.

and it all makes sense.

it’s a rusty old thing, a coupe with cracked leather seats and a paint job that’s only retro because it’s zoomed straight past dated and circled back again.  it might even be hip, quentin figures, glancing around.  the car shows eliot’s pride: it's immaculately well-kept, without a speck of dust on the dashboard or a spot of ash on the floor.  

entranced, quentin's eyes track the elegant, practiced way eliot pulls smoke into his mouth and snaps it down his throat before dipping his hand back out through the open window without a single flake of ash ever floating out of place, until he realizes he's been staring a long time, too long.

he leans his head against the window to watch the trees go by.

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

 _do you like it?_ eliot asks, and when quentin drags his eyes away from the lights glittering in the glassy-smooth water to look at his face he sees that it’s expectant.  there’s a hint of something else, there, too: a quirk at the corner of his mouth and the scritch-scritch sound of his nails against the thigh of his pants, like he’s steeling himself for disappointment.

 _It’s beautiful_ , quentin says quietly.  he means it.

the parking lot sits atop a hill, overlooking the valley and the city beyond.  the lot is row after row of paved emptiness lit by pools of floodlight, and eliot’s stopped the car in the dark in between.  quentin can only see eliot in shadow, the edges of his face silhouetted against the glow behind him: his eyes follow the long, deliberate line of eliot's nose, tracking the curve of the tip right down to the slope of his lips.  

(eliot sucks his bottom lip into his mouth as he stares into the distance and, when he lets go, quentin can see the wet glint of it in the dark and he has to look away, again, because his chest is too tight.)  

before them, the city is reflected in the water: one city above and another below.  it’s far enough away that he can’t make out buildings, only lights and dark shapes tucked into trees, the occasional glint of headlights as they go by.

eliot looks faraway, his elbow resting on the open window and his forehead leaned against his palm.  his cigarette burns, mostly forgotten, in eliot's hand between them and the smoke stings quentin’s eyes, but he doesn't move away.

he wants the scent on his clothes to be a reminder when they get back to brakebills and eliot pretends this night never happened.

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

 _are you okay?_ quentin says finally.  he has to ask, now, or else he knows he never will, and for a second it's like all the air's been sucked right out of the car (or, maybe, it's just that quentin's been holding his breath this whole time, his blood pounding in his ears like a bass drum) but eliot only shrugs at him.  

_just needed to go for a drive and i, uh, wanted some company.  i'm sorry for waking you up._

_no,_ says quentin.  _no, i'm glad you did._

the cigarette in his hand has burned itself out, an inch of ash balancing precariously at the tip, and eliot carefully flicks it out the window.   _we should head back._

quentin looks back towards the water.  his palms are sweaty and his cheeks are hot and he feels himself shifting in his seat, his shoulder inching towards eliot's.  he feels like a needy child begging to be picked up and he knows he's staring at eliot's lips too obviously, more than a hint.  he whispers, _we could stay a little longer if you wanted to._

but eliot's hand is already on his keys and he starts the engine, the car shuddering to life like a giant, ancient beast waking underneath them.   _we gotta go_ _._ _the sun’s coming up and you have class._

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

they wind their way back towards home, down country roads and past now-familiar mile markers, and maybe tomorrow eliot will pretend the night wasn't anything more than a fever dream or a drunken fantasy.

(but maybe, too, his fingers thread themselves between eliot's as the sky turns to fire.)

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 


End file.
